’ Miss Froxfield intervened quickly as her betrothed showed signs of erupting again. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. Anna sprang lightly away across the street. The woman shrugged her shoulders. There's my thumb upon it. But it is my fault. Thames, look the door.
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